


Unfortunate Son

by galimau



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen, Moral Dilemmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galimau/pseuds/galimau
Summary: Alex Rider represented an investment of time, money and a staggering amount of potential. Tulip Jones had a duty to her department and her nation.He was would never become an agent, but that didn't mean that Alex outlived his usefulness as the years passed.And when you ask them, "How much should we give?" Ooh, they only answer "More! More! More!"
Relationships: Tulip Jones & Alex Rider
Comments: 18
Kudos: 91





	Unfortunate Son

**Author's Note:**

> This was the result of months of poking an idea, an exchange prompt from Silver Queen (very, very belatedly returned) that clarified my idea, and the encouragement of my friends. Particularly Kyle, who asked me to recognize him by name in return for editing help. 
> 
> Loosely connected with my other works depicting Alex's future career.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it and that it finds you well.

Lingchi, the ‘death by a thousand cuts’ was used in China for hundreds of years as a method of torture and public execution. Most experts in the field agreed that it took far less than a thousand wounds for the subject to die. The exact number varied, not least because ‘cut’ was an understatement of the injuries inflicted.

It was an apt description of how Alex Rider was brought to heel.

Indignity following injury, compromise after concession.

Such things were the reality of the world they lived in.

In a kinder world, where terrorism was a specter rather than a constant threat biting at the heels of everything worth protecting, a child soldier would have been an unacceptable moral travesty.

At fifteen, already losing the baby fat that rounded his face and the long limbs that turned his silhouette into something disarming,  _ A. Rider _ was an asset that no one could afford to waste. A tool in their keeping, and a resentful one at that. Even the most sympathetic reading of his profile could not label him an ‘agent’, despite the best wishes for those among ‘6 that had his best interests in mind.

Despite, Tulip Jones privately mourned, all initial hopes.

The beginning of the story made sense, from the right angles.

Ian Rider had trained him, half out of concern for Alex surviving the world that killed his parents and half because it seemed a reasonable thing to do to occupy a child too clever and too active for his own good. Any information that spread among certain professional circles could have been no more than the bragging of a proud uncle. The grasp of languages, the quick fingers. Comfortable under pressure, if stubborn.

If Ian had lived, there was an internship waiting with Alex’s name on it. All official and legal, if reeking of old-school nepotism. Summers at sixteen. A contract at eighteen he would have had no reason to turn down. Two years and then entry into a sensible university to finish the proper qualifications and then back into the field.

In the scope of things, twenty-four was astoundingly young for an agent with that degree of polish and experience. And it would have been a good career, catered toward his skills and engrossing. There was every indication that he would thrive.

Alex Rider would have been the best that nature and nurture could provide to MI6. 

But Ian Rider had not lived.

A closed casket and the quiet shuffling of paper behind closed doors. The ‘vault’, as some employees who had retained a sense of humor called it. Where a bank kept its valuables. Where paper trails ended, lines of communication and degrees of classification that meant few had any real idea what was down there. Coordinates for black sites, information on Britain’s allies that would have crippled international relations if it ever came to light. Scarlet dossiers on the war criminals recruited and given new identities in return for their research, all tucked safely into bland manilla folders.

Alan Blunt had climbed to the top of the Bank in the aftermath of a crumbling empire and at the height of the Cold War.

The blackmail of one boy who happened to be more useful than most his age was far from the worst thing he’d done in the interest of the common good.

When Alan retired, it was with a clear conscience and the dear hope that Tulip would grow to fit the job.

For better or worse, she did.

She started with the best of intentions when it came to Alex. That was what hurt the most, on nights when Tulip allowed herself to hurt at all.

It was easy to look at him and see her own children. The entire reason that the job existed – to protect the future of a nation.

But most days, it was easier to look at him and see the reality of the situation. That he represented a lot of time and effort on the part of British Intelligence, and that they were operating on a timeline. School was a luxury that they couldn’t afford while he was still young. Perhaps if he continued to grow up and fill out at the rate he was, he would be able to catch up on his studies sooner rather than later.

He still asked, between missions. About more tutors, about exam schedules and trying to balance their needs with his hopes. Tulip kept him pacified with scant time off, doing her best to coordinate with other agencies who had been interested in him since he made himself indispensable at the age of fourteen.

Her predecessor had not been a believer of honey over vinegar.

Tulip hoped that given the right circumstances, Alex would drive himself into the ground with his education instead. A delicate balance to give the hope of success but none of the tools to achieve it.

He remained a proud, competitive person. Failure on his own terms might be just the blow needed to cow him back into line where threats had only made him resent their work.

Tulip Jones wasn’t a woman who was known for her patience, but for Alex, she found in herself hidden reserves. His extraordinary success rate had as much to do with it as his youth.

She regarded the thumb drive he’d delivered to her, and swallowed down the lecture about expenses and operating procedures and following orders. There was time for that later. What was important now was that the mission had been done. 

Rather than voice her irritation, or even put the little piece of technology away, she unwrapped a peppermint to collect herself.

“Thank you, Alex. As always. I know you don’t like hearing this, but thousands of people are alive because of you.” Tulip hoped the honesty of the statement showed through.

He was still young enough to color at the praise. He’d never gotten much of it, and despite the proud jut to his chin, that lack showed through. She didn’t smile at him. It wouldn’t be genuine, and he’d just fight her more at the suspicion of being condescended to.

“Sit,” she told him, gesturing at her guest chair.

“No thanks.” Alex braced his hands on the back and leaned over it instead, looking mulish. “Don’t call me again during term. I mean it. I have finals- “

Tulip broke in, not interested in hearing the rest. “Of course. While I can’t promise we won’t be in touch later, education is important. Take whatever time you need.” 

“See, you always say that, and then there’s always a crisis that apparently only I can handle.”

Sometimes Tulip wanted to sit Alex down, whether he agreed to the comfortable chair or not, and ask just which of his jobs he would have preferred to have fair. What number he saw as an acceptable casualty count for his own peaceful life. Or if he would have rathered they left him to his own misadventures when he went looking for trouble on his own.

But that would have soured things between them and unlike Alan, she genuinely wanted to be on good terms with the boy. There was every indication that they would have a long career together after all.

“I’m sorry that your schedule was disturbed,” she said instead. Voice carefully bland. Alex didn’t know her well enough to read the irony between the syllables. “I hope the rest of your day improves.”

Alex was gone down the hallways before the door finished swinging closed.

* * *

It was a sorry state of affairs when Alex found himself glad to be outside Jones's office. A new experience and not one that he wanted to repeat any time soon. He honestly hadn't expected to make it up the elevator, not without an official summons. Not after his record bursting into the Bank, not with his personal history with Jones.

Apparently a record of more or less willing cooperation changed things.

Or, more likely, she knew exactly why he was there.

Alex wasn't admitted straight away. Even when Mrs. Jones was in a friendly mood, her schedule wasn't precisely a light one. If he hadn't been so grateful that he didn't have to go home, being left in the limbo of sterile hallways and fluorescent lights might have bothered him more. For all the clandestine business that went on in the Bank, they were committed to the aesthetic of their cover.

Alex jiggled his knee a few times without realizing what he was doing. Forced himself to stop. When he realized that the cameras could probably pick up everything and that he was being achingly obvious about his nerves, he sank down against the wall to sit there instead. He hoped he just looked young instead of scared. 

‘Hurry up and wait.’ Something he’d become familiar with from the occasional overlap he had with the military. He’d put it into practice at school, dragging his way through his days. Usually, MI6 moved at a lighting pace - he was here one day, gone the next. He should have known better than to expect that that would continue when it came to his schedule.

Jones was one of the few truly powerful people in the country by now. Plenty of influence of the office and personally, accumulated through a long career.

It was still better than the last meeting he'd just sat through.

Alex reminded himself of that fact, over and over, as he waited for the door to open and his heart to settle. There were no clocks in the hall, and though he could have checked the time on his phone, the idea of a precise record of time spent crouched on the floor was even more unappealing than trying to accept that he might be here until for an hour or more. 

The very real chance that he could be dismissed entirely wasn’t worth thinking about. 

Alex had been taught to meditate before. He rocked his head back against the wall and tried to reach for some of that calm now. 

Eventually, the door swung open. A man stepped out. Poorly fitted suit, the shine of cheap fabric that had been ironed too many times. Unassuming and scruffy. He didn't spare a look towards the teenager on the floor and didn't make any noise as he walked.

Normally, Alex would have been intrigued at a glimpse of a strange agent in his native habitat. Not one simmering with resentment for his presence, or juggling a mission and orders he wasn’t privy to. They were always less impressive than he thought they would be, somehow. 

Ian had seemed normal too, but Alex had worshipped him in the way that only a lonely kid with an absentee guardian could. No matter how long he’d been left alone with Jack, Ian brought the sun with him when he returned home. 

Maybe it wasn't strange that none of these other people could measure up to that expectation. 

The agent headed down the hall, vanished into the elevator. Alex took a moment to compose himself. The door to Jones’s office had been left open.

It was as clear of an invitation as Alex was ever going to get.

Alex stood and walked inside, trying not to feel like he was dripping guilt with every motion. 

“Alex,” Mrs. Jones greeted him without any surprise. Her hands were crossed neatly on her solid desk, and for once she looked perfectly focused on him. No mission details to go over or apocalyptic threats pressing against her schedule today. Being the focus of her sole attention was less than comforting. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

And for once that was even true. No ominous phone call about his account, no driver outside his home. Just the chance to salvage a situation that had spiraled out of control.

Alex didn’t want to be here, was furious at himself for even thinking to try coming to them for a favor, but there had to be  _ something  _ he got in return for everything that he’d done for them. He wasn’t being paid, he wasn’t sleeping well at night, and they’d more than taken their pound of flesh well in advance of today.

Alex eased himself down into the chair across from her and hoped he looked half as clear-eyed. At least, he thought, he hadn’t shown up with red eyes like some sort of child.

“I need your help. Please.” 

She didn’t react. He didn’t doubt that she knew exactly what he was talking about, but Alex found himself filling the quiet anyways. 

“Jack can’t know,” Alex said before he realized that didn’t make sense. He swallowed down nerves and began again. Tried to act as if it were a debriefing. “I’ve been suspended from Brooklands, they said they couldn’t tolerate behavioral issues and-” Alex cut himself off. If Mrs. Jones didn’t already know what had driven him to her office, he didn’t need to be giving her more ammunition. 

_ Behavioral issues _ . 

It had been a fight, by their definition. He hadn’t even hurt the other kid, had been so, so careful and kept his temper behind his polite smile, willing to call it even and be left alone but he couldn’t stand bullies. Not when they might go after people who weren’t him. 

Brooklands’ zero tolerance policy towards violence felt a lot more pointed when he’d spent so long begging for any type of second chance. 

Ten days. Two weeks of full exclusion.

Mrs. Jones waited for him to collect himself.

He didn’t want to be calm, he wanted to spit that this was their fault, that if he hadn’t missed so much time already then he’d be able to push through this. That fighting had never been a problem in the past. That he wouldn’t have gotten into a fight in the first place. 

But for the first time that he could remember, Alex honestly wanted something from the Bank. Not to score a temporary victory off Jones, but something that they  _ owed _ him.

“Jack can’t know,” he repeated. The words felt different, though. Less of a desperate plea, more firm. If he had to go home and face Jack with this between them, something would be broken past repair. He’d been patching over the fissures in their house since he got home from the last job already. 

“All calls that go into your house are routed here first,” Mrs. Jones said. “We got the notification that you’d been suspended nearly three hours ago. And that you then left campus without permission, and without your guardian.” 

Alex was too wrung dry to be upset by one more invasion of privacy. Or even surprised. He knew that they were watching him. That they did with most of their active, high-risk agents. Alex wasn’t an agent, but he couldn’t argue about the danger he’d managed to find himself in. Fun and new types, even. 

Only two months ago, he’d been told that his cover had survived the last job he was on, but that it was functionally useless now, with a price on its head. Alex had been almost amused that multiple versions of him had gained notoriety for causing problems. 

Any humor in the situation had long since evaporated. He stared at Jones, feeling as grey as the walls around them.

“So what does that-”

“Ms. Starbright isn’t aware of the situation.” 

Alex slumped in relief, melting into the uncomfortable chair. His eyes even dipped closed, the sudden weariness of tension gone at once. The worst kick of adrenaline he’d ever been on. The idea of going back and telling her how badly he’d fucked up had been worse than any punishment from his school.

Things had been so tense between them recently. Alex just didn’t know how to  _ fix _ it. Maybe this would help.

He heard the soft crinkle of a wrapper. One of Jones’ mints. He still didn’t know she was able to stand the constant taste of menthol. Maybe she’d been a smoker, in some past life as a human being with vices. 

“Of course, she won’t be ignorant for long. It’s hard to miss another person in the house for days on end.”

Alex pried his eyes open.

He’d already considered that. Thought about staying with Tom, but his parents made that impossible. His best bet was just… getting up in the morning, biking away, and pretending like things were fine for the next two weeks. He could pull it off. He’d become a good liar.

“What do you want.”

Because they always wanted something from him. It was less surprising than the surveillance. 

Jones blinked impassive eyes at him over the expanse of her desk. Alex almost wished the room had been cluttered with urgency, rather than this surreal patience. 

“There’s a mission that we could use you on. Short, just to help with cover. In and out. It would take about two weeks, all told. You could blame us for your sudden absence.” She gave a slight, crooked smile. It wasn’t pleasant, but that made it feel more honest than any amount of charm would have. “Given Ms. Starbright’s experiences with MI6 to date, I don’t think she’d investigate any further.”

The worst part was that it was true.

Alex could already taste the phone call, how the words would feel when he said them to Jack.  _ The Bank, no choice, they said it would be over soon, I’m so sorry.  _

Never trust a good thing. Something else Ian had managed to teach him. Unintentionally, as all the secrets from a lonely childhood peeled back and a collection of half-truths and assumptions was left behind. Alex wasn’t sure he’d ever really forgive him for that last, most valuable lesson in paranoia.

“Every other time you’ve sent me on a mission, it hasn’t gone well.” 

That was about the kindest thing he’d ever said about the Bank. 

There were options here. Maybe he wasn’t getting a favor from Jones, but he could understand a trade. Something he wanted for something they wanted. It was more than he’d ever had before. 

“It’s a much simpler job than any of the others that you’ve been sent on before. Your presence would help our operative remain undetected, but the job will happen with or without you.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Over and over. Less often now, and the return of the pale excuse hurt more than Alex could have expected. He’d gotten used to Jones giving him the bare courtesy of outlining how much danger he would be in. 

“If you were going to play a more active role, I would tell you. You’re not fourteen any more. You’re more valuable when you have a full understanding of the parameters of a mission and I have abided by that,” Jones said. Her voice was firm. “This is not the type of work where attracting any level of attention is acceptable. From other governments or external departments within our own. Your presence would help keep that cover. If you want a convenient excuse to disappear for two weeks, this is what I can offer you.”

Alex wasn’t sure he could ever believe that, but even he’d noticed that Jones seemed less stressed than she usually was.

Maybe Alex was just… useful, rather than something that might make or break the mission. 

It was relieving. 

“Okay.” It was the first time that Alex had said it so willingly, and each syllable cost him. Jones didn’t appear to notice.

“I’m glad we could work this out. Now, if you don’t mind,” her eyes flicked past his shoulder to the door. “Go home, act normally. You’ll get a call tomorrow morning. I’m sure your outrage will be convincing.”

Alex wasn’t sure when Mrs. Jones had developed a sense of humor. The faint urge to grin at the flicker of a personality was alarming. Maybe it was the feeling of victory. Despite his reservations about any mission that would be ‘just two weeks’, he’d gotten what he’d asked for. 

Hadn’t even needed to beg.

Alex nodded at her, aiming for adult acknowledgement for the deal they’d struck and feeling like he was falling short. When he got up to leave he couldn’t quite stop himself from saying, “thank you”.

If Jones heard him -- and he knew that was inevitable -- she at least had the decency not to say anything.

* * *

“I’d like to recommend you for additional training. I think it’s about time,” Mrs. Jones said as Alex made his escape toward her door. It was the end of a meeting that had already lasted longer than planned, and Alex was past ready to eat something that wasn’t shrink-wrapped and nearly indestructible. The food on military flights was reliable but no one had ever accused it of being edible. The need for immediate debrief meant that he’d bounced from plane to car to the Bank without stopping to refresh himself. 

His stab at a formal mission report had taken most of the trip back to London. It had been a short, bitter mission and finding the right words to explain that had wrung the last of his brain dry. And then he’d spent the next hours going over it forward and back with Jones until even the most sensational details were as dull as the paint on her walls.

Alex was running on fumes, hungry, and it was slowly inching into the time of night between ‘too late’ and ‘way too fucking early’. He wanted to be back in his flat and asleep hours ago, and would have agreed with anything she said if it meant he could be on his way. 

That was why sleep deprivation was such a common interrogation tactic, after all. 

Alex ground to a halt in the doorway.

There was always the option of just… leaving, not acknowledging that she’d spoken and dealing with the fallout tomorrow. He’d be back in less than six hours anyways. Surely it could wait.

If she hadn’t reached for a peppermint from the little pile on her desk, he might have decided that the bollocking he’d get would be worth it. The head of MI6 had few tells, but Alex knew she valued the few seconds of distraction that the little candies gave her in hard conversations.

He didn’t like knowing that this was going to be a hard conversation.

Alex swung around, ready to be stubborn.

“Training? You do realize you just complimented me on another job well-done?” 

Or as near to it as she got. There had been a smile hiding in the corner of her mouth as she commented on his ‘innovative problem solving’, which Alex counted as a victory for his career and a monumental emotional expression from Tulip. He remembered her being  _ more _ , years ago, even though he never would have believed it back then. The Bank ground you down until you fit the job - by now, he knew that as well as anyone. 

Being the Head meant you couldn’t care. Not in any way that mattered.

But sometimes, whether it was because she remembered him as a kid or that he remembered her as someone a touch more human, Jones would indulge him. And now, even though she owed him no explanations, she took his flip question seriously. 

“You’ve been in the field for five years without additional training, the longest allowed by regulations. We need to be sure you’re still capable. As an official employee, there has to be attention to the details of procedure.”

Every agent had to be some degree of shameless, but Alex felt vaguely amazed. Mrs. Jones hadn’t varied her tone by an inch, and she looked as if this was well-trod ground between the two of them rather than something he was hearing for the first time just before three in the morning.

Alex pushed his hand through his hair and broadcasted his irritation broadly enough for the cameras lurking in the corners to spot. 

“I’ve been ‘ _ in the field’ _ for barely a year, unless we’re counting the four years that I worked for you under the table, which I thought we were avoiding because my life is not only ridiculous and classified, but also highly illegal.” If the last words came out a bit arch, Alex felt like it was well-deserved.

Jones didn’t seem to agree.

“You are at the appropriate point in your legitimate career to participate in a specialized training program. Quite frankly, you still show a staggering amount of potential, and as a promising new agent your participation will be unremarkable.”

“Yes, but-”

“Alex,  _ sit _ .” Jones didn’t point a finger at the chair, but from the look on her face, it was a close thing.

Alex threw himself back into the seat in front of her desk. If he had actually been a new agent, he probably would have been too cowed to back-chat Jones. But impertinent behavior was sort of his entire point. He pressed his luck, she tightened the leash. Balance.

“You do remember that my original training was a farce, and my job performance hasn’t  _ been _ an issue.”

It should have been a question, but exhaustion leached the emotion out of his voice. He was being on a chain, even one he had agreed to, got tiring after a while. He liked Jones well enough, but… sometimes it stung. 

“Yes. But Alex,” Jones leaned across her desk, fingers steepled, “this is what you requested. Your record with us will always be commendable, if top-secret. I am not denying that. But when you officially agreed to work for us, you asked me to make sure you were treated like any other agent. Anyone else with your skills would be tapped for this.”  _ So stop fighting me _ , her expression said. 

His teeth creaked against the urge to argue and he knew that she could see him biting down on a stupid response. He could recognize, objectively, that Jones was right. Being reasonable, even. He’d asked for a lot when he’d signed himself over to ‘6 and she had met each of his demands with a nod and a flat stare that warned him not to take their cooperation for granted. 

As if he ever could. Years later the memory of being told to ‘think of it like a vacation’ still rubbed wrong under his skin. 

It wasn’t even strictly true that he'd neglected updating his skills; people in his line of work picked up new talents all the time. Alex knew that he had a wider array of tricks up his sleeve than any conventional agent of five years. Friends in low places, to put it delicately.

This training wouldn’t be an opportunity to develop the skills he lacked. It couldn’t be, if he was entering as an inexperienced agent with only one year on his record. 

On the other side of training, he’d be one step closer to being a no-account agent, rather than the secret weapon of MI6. That’s what Jones was implying. Like a mob running blood money through legitimate businesses, ‘6 would be laundering their dirty agent through the bureaucratic system to come out on the other side smelling like roses. 

The thought of that was more appealing than it should have been. He’d given up on having the life he’d wanted at fourteen, or even sixteen. Maybe life as a regular operative could be close enough to normal for him. 

...if she was telling the truth.

Something still felt off. If he hadn’t been jet lagged and dead on his feet, it would be easier to navigate around the subtext of this conversation. She wanted something, that was all Alex knew for sure. Whether or not Jones had a guarded soft spot for him, she would never give up the advantages that came with having him under her control. He might not be a child any more, but at nineteen he was still ridiculously young for the job. His peers were entering their first year of uni, or off seeing the world and finding themselves. 

He’d just come off a red-eye flight from a war zone, tracking information about one of their dirty little secrets that might have made its way into enemy hands. 

Rain had started up again outside, tapping at her window. Alex slumped his down in his chair and watched Jones flip through her paperwork and wait for his indignation to settle. He wondered if she’d slept yet, or if she was working straight through the night. It might have been the horrid lighting, but her dark skin had a waxy quality and her desk was covered in files. He couldn’t see much, but there was a worrying amount of red ink bleeding through the back of one of the pages.

“Specialized training?” He asked after the silence had spun too long. Even if she was tired too, Jones was perfectly capable of keeping him here until it was time for him to report in officially in the morning, just out of spite. 

She didn’t answer, nose still buried in her paperwork, but the quality of her silence shifted. Cautious.

Carefully, Alex sat straighter in his seat. “What kind of training are you recommending me for, exactly?”

The pile of mints on her desk - she carried them with her, not willing to take the risk of being poisoned from a tin left unattended - caught his eye again. She’d have had her pockets full of them for there to be so many left at this time of night. Instead of being ridiculous, the mental image soured his gut.

“What kind of ‘specialized’ are we talking about becau-”

Jones cut him off. “Highly classified work, operating on your own with minimal oversight, short active missions with adaptable parameters. The type of thing you already favor.” 

It sounded so reasonable, put like that. 

“Wetwork.”

The paperwork hit the desk with enough force to disturb the other files she had open. Alex watched the papers ruffle and kept himself blank, shoved down the anxiety into the crack in his chest that he kept secret and close. She couldn’t really be asking this of him. There was no reason to. He’d said he’d never do this type of thing. And she’d told him, years ago, that he wasn’t suited for it anyways. 

But she didn’t look like she was joking.

“If you insist on being crass. Black operations if you want to be accurate.” The doubt must have shown on his face because she continued, “it’s more than just killing, Alex. It just means the jobs would be unattributable to us.”

“Then what makes it different from the work I’ve been doing?”

He’d never seen his official file, or at least not one that hadn’t been heavily redacted. No black ink, nothing that obvious, just plenty of white lies and alternative histories that would have put any propagandist to shame. If anything he’d done as a teenager was ‘attributable’ to MI6 outside of the upper echelons of the intelligence community, Alex would be very surprised.

Jones had the decency not to keep playing coy.

“The compensation, mostly.”

Alex was paid decently for what he did. Nothing to write home about, if he’d had anyone to tell, but Britain wasn’t known for having a loose pocketbook with her government agencies and on paper he was at the bottom of the heap. As Jones had said earlier, appearances had to be maintained. And if it stung, it was only because Alex had spent years working for free. 

The money from Ian, finally released to him as an inheritance last year, had done wonders. With his salary, he got by.

The black funds were a different animal. 

It was what covered the soundly-denied negotiations with terrorists and dark holes in the ground and the basement staff that had kept Alex soundly under Blunt’s thumb at fourteen. Parliament might fuss about the security services being where budgets went to die, but they wanted results most of all. If no one on the outside caught wind of what ‘6 really got up to, then they never had to tell Jones ‘no’. 

Alex held very still. He didn’t want to be the type of person that was tempted by money, not even money that he should have already been making. That fell firmly into the ‘bad people do this’ category in his mind.

Whether or not she caught something off in his expression, Jones let it pass in favor of pressing her point again. “It’s just training. No strings attached. You’re due for an assessment either way and if the work really doesn’t suit you, then it was a chance to brush up on training and nothing more.” 

Some small, scared voice in the back of his mind was screaming at that, but it was hard to hear beneath the press of fatigue and need to focus on the conversation. 

“I don’t want to do this.” And then, because that felt childish in its understatement of the actual issue he had, “I don’t like killing people.”

The chair gave a tired creak as Jones leaned back in it to level a long look at him. Her expression was lighter than it had since they finished the official debrief almost ten minutes ago and Alex felt, very suddenly, like he had made a mistake somehow. One eyebrow crept higher as she watched him squirm. He resisted the urge to retreat, to apologize. 

“If you did, I would be concerned.”

The back of his neck prickled with embarrassment. He knew perfectly well what was in his mission report but that wasn’t the same as what she was implying. Those were just… things that had happened. Self-defense.

It didn’t  _ mean _ anything about him. About his work. 

Or at least, it didn’t have to. 

“Alex,” she said, gentle as she ever could be. “I think the training would be good for you. Whether or not we transfer you to black ops. It’s just a recommendation, not an order. If you really won’t cooperate, it’s only going to be a waste of my time and yours and I’ll drop it right now.” That same quiet tone. Not kind, nothing about Jones was ever kind, but quiet and deliberate. The type of voice that made it hard for Alex to cling to indignation even when he knew it was a trap. “But Alex… I haven’t been wrong about you yet.” 

She let that sink into the space between them, heavy with the history of other meetings they’d had in this room. 

Slowly, inevitably, Alex tightened his mouth and nodded.

“I’ll do the training. No promises on anything else.”

Jones looked slightly relieved, but mostly well-satisfied. Alex couldn’t make himself care about what her goal with all this was. He just wanted to be on his way home.

“I’ll send you the information tomorrow. Be here at nine,” she said. Her attention was already drifting back to her desk. Another item on the agenda to be crossed off.

Alex closed the door silently when he left. 

* * *

There was a certain kind of freedom that came from setting aside the ideas you had about yourself. You had no standard to rise above, so the churn in your gut went away when you looked in the mirror after a job. There was no expectation to meet, and because of that, no failure. 

Alex thought he'd made his peace with living that way. You did the job asked of you, and that was that. Whatever it was that seemed so repugnant in black and white would have to be done anyways, and sometimes the best thing that you could do was soften the blow. There was a particular kind of zen, seeing it in that light.

He'd never wanted to do blackops work, but it kept him busy and he was decent at it. 

His coworkers thought he was better than he was, and Alex was pretty sure that Jones had been exaggerating his legend again. It made people shut up about his age when they knew he was dangerous.

But no amount of inner peace with the life he'd fallen into made the new orders that had come in sit easily. 

A retired government worker, fleeing with a full bank account and a mouth full of secrets. An unacceptable potential for a security leak.

Alex understood why the Bank wanted him gone. 

He just couldn't understand why, in what could only be a twist of the knife from Jones, he'd been requested for the job. Out of all the ways that she’d injured him, chipping away at his reservations over the years, this had to be the cruelest.

It had been a decade, but Alex remembered that knock on the front door perfectly. A memory sharp enough that he still cut himself on the edges of it, whenever he tried to look back over what in the world Ian had been thinking.

_ Car accident. _

His fingers didn't shake when he dialed her number. 

It took a while to connect. Someone, somewhere, had a direct line to the Head of MI6. Alex wasn't one of those people. The line beeped into his ear long enough for him to be sure that any number of people would be listening once Jones actually picked up.

“Alex.”

“Hi, quick question. You meant for this file to come to me?” Voice light and friendly, willing to have this be all an accident.

A mix-up, intended for any one of the other scalp-hunters that MI6 kept on contract. Alex didn’t need the job not to exist, he just didn’t want it to be the one to carry it out. He’d take a rifle over this. He’d take a mugging gone wrong or a tragic mistake in medication. This assignment, coming from Jones, felt personal. 

Felt like it had teeth. The Bank didn’t make mistakes of this magnitude, but maybe it was just a warning. The last job had gone well, but he’d taken his time getting back, gotten distracted with what pretense of life outside work he could cling to.

In his back pocket, his other phone was a guilty weight against his leg. Plenty of agents had personal lives. He’d never been one of them. Had known the myriad of reasons why it was a bad idea and had still… hoped. 

For all that emerging security threats seemed to take his organization by surprise, they liked to keep a tight leash on their assets.

In his ear, the call went quiet. Somewhere, miles away, Alex imagined their unacknowledged audience scrawling notes about ‘A. Rider vocal tone’ on yellow legal pads.

“If there’s an issue with your account, you can take it up with the main desk,” Jones said. Smooth and practiced. Alex wasn’t sure why he’d been expecting her to turn so much as a hair at the accusation.

It wasn’t a denial. He wouldn’t have understood that, years ago. The retreat to old lines would have infuriated him and Alex would have snarled at her and the world at large and then wound up doing the job anyways. It would have smacked of hypocrisy and nothing else. A way for her to try and keep him out.

Alex hadn’t been  _ outside _ for years. 

Sometimes, he wished that he were. Because instead of hypocrisy, on the monitored line with Jones’s flat voice in his ear, he understood perfectly well what she was saying.

That it had been intentional, that there was no changing it, and most damningly: that he was expected to get the job done without argument. There wasn’t even the decency of an ambiguous ‘no’. 

Sometimes, doing this work, Alex was given an assignment that he knew would never see the light of day. If he asked for permission, for supplies, to take certain measures, his requests were denied. So that if something went wrong, there was a clear line through the chain of command. The weakest link, if he had to be cut loose. It gave him an out from the orders but not from the consequences, no matter how it turned out. 

Alex was pretty sure he’d be grey before thirty at this rate. If he made it to thirty. He’d gotten used to the knowledge that he was collateral damage the same way he’d gotten used to the weight of the job.

“Is there any flexibility in the job parameters?” Alex asked. Mimicking old conversations to buy time. He’d find a way to make it work, he’d swear up and down that he’d find a way to make it look natural if he had to. There was something about a car crash that turned his gut. One of the most frequent causes of death, something most would accept without batting an eye, and he’d always managed to avoid it professionally. He’d given up plenty for Jones. That she’d ask for this, too…

“Without looking at specifics, I couldn’t comment on any particular assignment. Not everything handed out crosses my desk. If you have any doubts, I’d advise that you stay faithful.”

He held the phone against his ear and reminded himself of the probable agents listening in, that blackops was the halfway-house of the industry and that Jones had once promised him he’d only keep doing the work as long as he could stomach it. No one stayed in for long.

After his first job, he’d expected to quit. 

The resolve just never seemed to stick. There was always some threat large enough that the math just didn’t make sense, even when he was weighing his ideals in the balance. 

_ Faithful. _ Jones had more color to her tone than Blunt had ever managed, but sometimes the extra emotion didn’t help the conversation on the table. Preventing a leak wasn’t a matter of faith. Just obedience.

Part of Alex, the one that would always be fourteen and angry at the world and determined to make things right, wanted to close the call and return home and insist that there was no way that this could be happening. That he’d find a way to fix everything, one last time.

The pathetic thing about that urge was that he’d sold the house in Chelsea as soon as he was able.

He had a nice flat, and a rapidly growing checking account, and a frantic fear between his ribs that he’d catch a bullet before he ever figured out what a life of his own looked like. 

“Okay,” Alex said. He wasn’t sure if his voice sounded as smooth as Jones, but he was reasonably sure it was steady. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, then.”

“Thank you, Alex.” Her voice warmed, just a fraction. “My door is always open to you.” 

It was a lie. He’d been shut down and kept waiting more times than he could count. Plenty more, he gave his report to one of the anonymous agents who rode desks all the way to retirement. Jones had more complicated things to deal with than one former child-spy turned middling operative.

A lie, but maybe a kind one.

“Okay,” Alex repeated, more quietly. He cut the call before he could hear anything else she’d said. Had a wretched certainty that it would have been more gratitude.

For his understanding of the circumstances, for his easy agreement. That as an adult he was less trouble than he’d ever been as a dumb, brave child. 

Mostly, Alex knew his boss was grateful that he hadn’t bothered to argue. 

When he slipped the phone back into his pocket, less than six minutes since he first pulled it out to try and beg mercy from a stone, his hands still weren’t shaking. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
